


want

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [135]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, set post pru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Newt deals with no longer being under the Precursors' control
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [135]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	want

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt C: [write-it-motherfuckers (.) tumblr (.) com/post/181503031945/person-a-are-you-going-to-tell-me-why-exactly-my](https://write-it-motherfuckers.tumblr.com/post/181503031945/person-a-are-you-going-to-tell-me-why-exactly-my)"

After, they sit, collapsed, on the floor; arm-in-arm, legs tangled, and minds enmeshed in one another’s. It’s oddly reminiscent of the _first_ after; after the first War. Minds enmeshed then, too, though last time, there was less— _this,_ laying here, stunned, and more kissing and tugging at each other, because, unsurprisingly, when two people who have been pining madly for each other for near a _decade,_ doing something like _that_ is bound to lead to something else.

The tile of the floor is cold against Newt’s palm—his mouth is dry, and he’d swallow, but he’s not sure he has enough muscle control to do so; not now; because _he’s_ the one slumped against— _on,_ really—Hermann.

He feels—weak. Thirsty, and tired, and hungry, god, so fucking _hungry,_ and he thinks, wanly, in a voice that sounds a little bit like it used to, in his head, _well, that’s what happens when the genocidal hivemind possessing your body goes on a hunger-strike._

“Newton?” Hermann asks, and, going by his tone, Newt thinks he may have already asked it a few times; the raggedness of his voice almost _soothing,_ oddly.

He works his jaw; tries to remember how to move his lips, and then: “The colour-scheme is awful.”

It’s the first thing _he’s_ said in—what, a year?—, and it’s not what he means to say; spilling out from him, but Hermann—laughs; ragged, again, and Newt thinks he might be crying a little. It’s not _sad_ tears, though, so. So—so, not too bad, then.

There’s a—a hand. In his. A hand—Hermann’s hand. In his hand. Hermann is holding his hand, and they are sitting on the floor, in the cell, and everything is fucked up and horrible, and everything is okay.

* * *

They give him a bed.

Or; rather. _Hermann_ bullies the medical staff into giving him in a bed. It’s the first proper bed he can remember being in, and it's—terrible. It’s fucking _awful,_ because it’s a _hospital bed,_ and those are never comfortable; he remembers _that,_ at least.

And it’s also—wonderful. To lay here, of his own will, mostly alone in his head, listening only to the silent whir of machines, and his own breath, and Hermann’s breath, where he lays beside him as he reads.

“You alright?”

It’s Hermann’s voice; and he is looking at Newt through sleep-heavy eyes. “Newton, are you alright?” he asks; again, and Newt suspects that he doesn’t really _expect_ an answer.

He shrugs; the rise of his shoulder, almost imperceptibly, higher than the other. “Can you read to me?” he asks, instead of replying, and there’s a half-second where he doesn’t really feel much of anything, and then he swallows and adds, hastily, “only—only if you want, obviously— _obviously,_ um—”

“Newton,” says Hermann; and this time, it’s gentler, and he raises his hand, the one that’s not holding the book, and sets it on Newt’s leg. “Breathe.”

Newt does.

One. Two. Three. Four.

_One. Two. Three. Four._

“Don’t be afraid,” Hermann says, and that's—probably the most ridiculous thing he’s said to Newt in a _while,_ (with the other possibly being, _Newton, you are a_ good _man_ —). “Say it, please, Newton, or—or say what you _want._ ”

Newt swallows; again, thickly, and Hermann’s hand, heavy, on his leg, is—it’s _something._

So—so he clears his throat and tries. “Can—can you read to me?”

His voice cracks. He’s not very certain. He’s not—he’s not a _lot_ of things, right now, honestly, but there’s something in this—in Hermann, who has glared at the medical staff until they let him stay, and who is sitting here, with his hand on Newt’s leg—that makes things…a bit _better._

“I want— _want_ you to read to me,” he says, again; and his voice is stronger, now, and Hermann smiles at him; wide and a little teary.

He licks his lips; gaze sliding from Newt’s, and he clears his throat; turns a few pages, and begins.

* * *

“Newton,” Hermann says, “what the actual _hell?_ ”

“Hermann!” Newt says, and gives a nervous grin.

He’s just got back from a work-trip. He’s staring at Newt, and Newt’s getting a bit— _anxious,_ honestly.

“Are you going to tell me _why_ exactly my flat is filled with stuffed animal? I _literally_ cannot see the floor!”

“There was a car accident outside,” Newt blurts out, because the alternative— _our_ flat—seems like showing his hand and that’s _terrifying,_ and as soon as the words have left his mouth he could _hit_ himself with how stupid they sound. God; fuck. He swallows thickly and doesn’t meet Hermann’s gaze.

“Well,” Hermann says. “I’m going to need a _little_ more information than that.” His voice is strained, and Newt cringes slightly at it.

“I—siren—I freaked out, and there’s a store down the street and I—I just grabbed as many as I could,” he says, voice small. “I didn’t mean—sorry I messed up your apartment. I didn’t mean—” He cuts himself off; fingers clenching and unclenching, and worries his lip.

Hermann sighs; takes a step forward, and Newt flinches. And then there’s a hand on his shoulder, and that's— _not_ what he was expecting. “Oh, Newton,” Hermann says, quietly, “no, don’t apologise. I was just— _surprised._ ”

“Sorry,” Newt repeats, the words feeling crushingly hollow, and he expects— _something,_ but not this; not for Hermann’s arms to encircle him, for his lips, chapped and wide, to press softly into his hair, murmuring quiet reassurance.

Newt could cry.

Newt _does_ cry. Tears leak down his cheeks, and Hermann’s hands rub circles on his back; slowly.

“I only spent thirty bucks,” Newt says, barely thinking about it; the justification a defensive one, and Hermann sighs.

“You needn’t try and assure me,” he says, “I may think it—well, _odd,_ to be frank, but I…I understand, in a way.” The last bit is said quietly, and there’s a moment of silence before Hermann says, “Besides, I’m not about to—to _begrudge_ you it. It’s thirty dollars, Newton, not the end of the world.”

“ _Hah,_ ” Newt says, a little wet, and presses his face into the crook of Hermann’s neck.

It's—it’s. Good. Newt smiles, and lets his hands move to curl loosely around Hermann’s waist.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
